


Surrender

by taranoire



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-Thor (2011), Protective Thor (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: Thor and Loki make a mistake that is not a mistake, and Heimdall, of course, knows all about it.





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Thorki has been together for 1,000 years. Only Heimdall knows what’ve happened between their sheets

It is a mistake as it is not one. 

They are alone together in a copse of ancient forest on Vanaheim, moonlight pale silver in the dark, the scent of old, old earth beneath their feet, the fire somehow dim and muted, casting long and comforting shadows on the trees. 

The grime of battle has long since been washed away, the memory of their kills excited whispers in the stifling, dense corner of wood: Thor was force and instinct and electricity, battering back foes in an explosion of raw power; Loki was lithe, and dark, and dangerous, circling his prey as if he relished the fear in their eyes before his blade drew their lifeblood, dark, dark crimson spattered on the silver. 

They revel in this, truly. Alone, they have their strengths, but together, they think--they are unstoppable. 

“We could rule the seven realms, if we wanted,” Loki says, laughter in his eyes, over the rim of his wine goblet, lying on his side in perfect repose. “Or destroy them.” 

Thor knows that this is a dangerous thing to say, but it does not occur to him in his drunkenness to say so, dizzy with blood-lust and heady with Loki’s presence so close. “As long as we are together, brother mine.” 

“Hmm,” Loki says. “And so we shall be.” 

Thor doesn’t know where it begins. He cups his face, as he usually does, innocent and gentle, an idle caress of his thumb. He kisses his forehead, breathing him in--innocent, again, and not so very different, a gesture of strong affection that few question. Then his nose, and his fluttering eyelids, and then--with Loki’s breath against his skin--his lips, and although Thor knows this is wrong, he cannot stop.

Loki drops the wine goblet, and its contents spill crimson against the lichen and moss webbed across the earth. 

It is wrong--it is  _wrong_ \--but Thor shutters those thoughts away, because it feels too good to have Loki’s spider-fingers in his hair, to have the soft wet heat of his mouth, to have him trembling beneath him, silver-tongue quieted to mewling little gasps. 

He draws back, but once, and Loki’s eyes search his, and there is far too much emotion in them and Thor is frightened by it, because he knows his gaze reveals the same. 

They say nothing to each other, the rest of the night, because the sun does not ask the moon what it needs, it simply  _knows._ (As it is in war, so it is in love.) 

And so it is when Thor takes him, again and again, never close enough, never hard enough, Loki’s arms around his neck and his breath in his ear, Thor as intently focused on pleasuring him as he is defending him against their enemies (and there are many). A thousand years of life between them and he has never felt so close as he does now, buried deep inside of him, making him writhe around him, prideful of the way he (and he alone) can render him speechless, possessed, conquered. 

Thor has him until the songbirds began to sing, until they are cold and damp and oversensitive and aching, until the sun rises bright on the silver mist of the wood, until the fire burns to smoky embers. When they cannot endure any longer, they curl against one another, lazy kisses and warm hands, until they fall asleep. 

It is wrong. But when they wake they do not say that, dance around each other as they wash and dress and prepare to return home. There is acceptance, in the way Loki looks at him; fear, in the way that Thor trembles as he saddles their horses; and, above all else, the unspoken words between them that say they will never stop wanting whatever this was. 

The kaleidoscopic tempest of the Bifrost delivers them to Asgard, and they pointedly ignore Heimdall as they arrive. They share a glance, and Thor wonders if Loki feels as he does when he looks at him. He has always thought, academically, that Loki is beautiful--like a glitter-scaled snake is beautiful, or the veins of lightning in a thunderstorm are beautiful. That has never been more true. 

He is so absorbed by these thoughts--by the memory of his soft lips against his skin, by the the graceful way he moves as he ascends his horse, by the way that even his most poisonous words can charm any to want him to say  _more--_ that he does not notice Heimdall at his back. 

“I know what it is that you have done,” Heimdall says. 

Thor stops, tearing his gaze from the flutter of emerald on the Bifrost and ignoring the sick lurch in his stomach. He expected this, knows that the Gatekeeper is all-Seeing, but it does not relieve the static spark of fear in his fingertips or the tight choke of breath in his throat. 

“You will tell no one,” Thor says, as firmly as he is capable of. “That is the command of your crown-prince.” 

“I serve the realm before the whims of its princes,” Heimdall says, hands clasped firm around the pommel of his great sword, his crimson-gold eyes unblinking. “And I fear that this whim will be its undoing.” 

Thor turns to him, thunder in his blood. “If you tell the All-Father, you know that it is Loki who will bear the brunt of his wrath. You  _know_ this. And yet you have confronted me with your knowledge, and not he. Why?” 

“Loki is mercurial and self-serving. He would not have the strength to end your shared sin.” 

“Then you underestimate him, and overestimate me,” Thor says, unflinching. He advances on him without thinking, intending to--he doesn’t know, batter the Gatekeeper with blood-rage, ozone, and abandon. He stops within arm’s reach, hesitant, breathing hard through his gritted teeth. His hands curl and uncurl with the need to hurt, but he holds himself still. 

Heimdall’s all-Seeing eyes widen, only just, but he does not move to defend himself. 

“And this, your Highness, is what I meant by undoing,” he says. “You would strike me, merely for knowing what has passed between you? You would abandon all honor for him?” 

“I would protect him,” Thor says. “From any hurt, from any pain. To me there is no greater measure of honor than that. You will not tell the All-Father. Perhaps I can not kill you now, Heimdall, and know that I love and respect you, and have always done so since I was but a child looking up at you; but when I am King of Asgard I will destroy you.” 

He turns and departs, leaving the Gatekeeper to his thoughts, and then rides his silver-haired steed hard back home. It was not wise to threaten Heimdall, he knows, and he is certain he will pay in some measure or another, now or in another thousand years; still, his blood sings, fear and longing and relief that this secret may yet remain thus a twining melody of green and black and gold. 

He ignores the servants and stable-master, and seeks Loki out upon his return. He is exactly where Thor expects him to be, and always be, in quiet repose in his chamber, reading alone--or pretending to read, for surely he is too distracted by what passed in Vanaheim as well as Thor. Soft in dark verdant silk. 

Thor watches him from the doorway, a moment, and if Loki sees him standing there, he does not indicate it. If the All-Father discovers their sin, if he tears them apart, if he attempts to wrench this away, then Thor will guard this memory closely even as it cuts him.

Loki is honey laced with arsenic, an ornate blade dripping blood, a spider weaving a delicate silver web; Thor knows all of this, and he does not care, because if any could survive the dark terror of his seduction, it is he. 

Loki’s eyes lift, but he otherwise does not move. 

“Brother,” he says, and it is a question and a come-hither. 

Thor swallows. He takes a step forward, and then stops, wanting to touch him but fearful of what will happen if he does. “He knows,” he says, and is surprised to hear his voice tremble.  

Loki does not ask who ‘he’ is, merely nods his head and reluctantly closes the yellowing pages of the book in his hands. “Of course he knows.” 

He rises from the bed and lays the book gently on its spread, and then rises and goes to Thor, taking his hands in his own. He looks at him, green-blue eyes cool and calm, and Thor feels that if he gazed long enough he would fall into them. There would be no sweeter Hel. 

“You are not frightened?” Thor asks. 

“It changes nothing,” Loki says. “Even if he were to tell father, it changes nothing. At least for me.” He hesitates, and there is vulnerability there, and Thor reaches up to cup his face as if that touch alone could warm it away. 

“Would it change anything for you?” Loki dares to ask. 

Thor wants to say it would change everything. That he would keep Loki at a distance to spare him, that he would focus his energies on fighting and drinking and whoring, the thrum of blood-rage in his veins and the noble call of Kinghood on the horizon. That he would forget his devotion to the moon and cast his light elsewhere. 

Instead, he murmurs, “No.” 

And because he is weak, and because he can no more untangle himself from whatever they have done to themselves than cut out his own heart, Heimdall and Asgard be damned, he kisses him soundly and gently, his fluttering pulse beneath his fingertips, his lips parting in unspoken surrender, his breath hitching when Thor slips his tongue between them. His, his, his. 

_Mine. My own. My only._

Heimdall never tells. 


End file.
